


digital get-down

by wildcard_47



Category: Mad Men
Genre: Also More Cuteness, And A Tiny Bit O' Smut, Blind Date, F/M, Retro-Style Online Dating, computer dating, meet cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-24
Updated: 2018-08-24
Packaged: 2019-07-01 17:21:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15778623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildcard_47/pseuds/wildcard_47
Summary: Single and (almost) ready to mingle, Joan decides to try the next big thing – computer dating.





	digital get-down

“You’ve got to be kidding. He said that exactly?”

Mouth open in surprise, Joan Harris reached out to take the proffered issue of  _ Life  _ from Annie’s outstretched hand, shaking her head in resigned disbelief as she turned to the carefully-cornered page. A pale green post-it was stuck to the page below the cartoon of a woman and man.  _ Think this gal looks like you! Have you tried this? _

“Maybe Flynn thinks he’s doing you a favor,” Annie speculated, batting curly blonde hair out of her eyes as Joan made a disgusted face. “You’ve turned around his business, made him good money, so he wants to…I don’t know…?”

“Set me up with some deranged sad sack who can’t even talk to women?” Joan huffed out a laugh through her nose. “Jesus. You know, I’d bet you five dolllars Lina was the one who suggested it. That woman hates me. She thinks all his business lunches involve hours of torrid sex – even the ones with gay men.”

“Yeah, well. It’s either this or pretend to be a lesbian when you see her, so….”

“God.” 

Shutting her eyes for a second, and clenching her teeth in impotent frustration, Joan groused about the indignity of it all. Cooper and Roger never had to put up with this shit. At least when they were single, people assumed it was because they were carefree bachelors or quirky business owners who were deeply involved in their own success, instead of assuming they were workaholic pariahs. Men had it so easy, didn’t they? 

In the span of half a minute, she had decided what she wanted to do. Maybe everybody was right. Maybe she should get back out there.

“Well. I guess it can’t kill me.”

“Seriously?” Annie looked surprised. “You’re really gonna try it? I mean, the whole thing just sounds so...impersonal. Worse than a blind date, even.”

Joan shrugged, tossed the flimsy magazine back onto her desk. The title of the ad stared up at her in black and white letters.  _ Computer dating.  _ What a world. “If nothing else, it’ll at least get my mother to stop complaining about my love life.”

 

##

 

COMPATIBILITY was located on Madison Avenue, very near the Holloway Harris offices, and so Joan went to take their “personality inventory” in person as opposed to filling out a few questions at home. How hard could it be? What could they possibly want to know?

An hour later, just before lunch, she had returned to the office with an impressively-thick file folder containing said inventory. After gently informing her they did not do in-person assessments for non-members, the receptionist gave her a document and a detailed price list. The document turned out to be a rigorous and very specific test containing almost three hundred questions.

“Dear god,” said Annie with a whistle, as they pulled the two-inch thick questionnaire out of the envelope sleeve. “I don’t even think the SATs were this long. And I took them four times.”

“I know,” Joan sighed mournfully, still wondering what the hell she had gotten herself into. Why was she moving forward with this at all? Even after Kevin started preschool – which had been the original end goal for renewing her dating life, and had since been delayed until he started kindergarten – she kept reminding herself that being single was not the worst thing in the world. “You’d think working one floor above the Print Council of America would mean less paper.”

Was she crazy to do something like this?

Joan didn’t think so, not after a week of mulling it over. Even if Helen Gurley Brown would snub an idea like computer dating, Joan could still try it. If it didn’t go well, she had other things in her life that were more important. Like a successful, flourishing business that was all hers. Although it might not be as profitable as she’d like, it was growing at a steady rate. Plus, she had a beautiful son, a mother who’d take care of him (and who would sometimes care for her stubborn, grown daughter), and an involved Uncle Roger, who had actually developed into an honest-to-god father figure.

If she didn’t have sex or kissing or someone to hold her at night, that wasn’t the worst thing in the world. If she didn’t have love, or companionship, or any of the other benefits being in a relationship could offer, she was still fine. Right? It didn’t mean she was a complete failure. It didn’t mean she was ugly.

Jesus Christ. She sounded like some ancient spinster.

“Well, we may as well fill it out now,” she told Annie with a resigned sigh, and went to pour herself a glass of gin. “Go get yourself a drink.”

 

##

 

Joan had decided not to overwhelm the system with a sea of referrals on this initial test, and had signed up for the apparently underutilized Plan Three, despite strenuous protestations from Agatha, COMPATIBILITY’s new member liaison.

“But you’re so beautiful,” Agatha kept saying, as if Joan didn’t already know what she looked like. She owned a mirror, after all. “You could have a new husband by next Thursday!”

Torn between the desire to laugh at this girl’s eagerness or sigh in a knowing way, Joan had decided not to spit out the first bon mot that came to mind.  _ Why the hell would I want that? _

Instead, she tempered the answer. “Agatha, I don’t need a shotgun wedding. I just want – someone kind. And funny. Who works hard, and enjoys life, and – loves being in love. Isn’t afraid to look like an idiot or do something really impulsive. You know?”

“Of course I do,” Agatha said fiercely. She really was excellent at this, Joan decided, watching the dark-haired girl take out a stack of fresh punch cards. The kind of forthright, optimistic demeanor that would calm the really nervous members. “Mrs. Harris, I’ve got just the person for you. We’ll send over his details right away.”

 

##

 

“I feel like I’m at the Oscars,” Annie said, as they stared at the closed envelope.

The packet had arrived first thing Monday morning, and Joan still hadn’t gotten up the wherewithal to open it. All she knew about this man was that he was not a new member, that he had recently moved to New York, and that he was British.

Probably a million other people in the world with that same background, Joan thought as Annie sliced through the envelope flap, and produced the member info.

“Hm,” she said as she opened it, and went silent.

A picture - likely some sort of business headshot, judging by the grey background - lay face-up on top of the pile. It had probably fallen out of its original container, or maybe escaped its usual place, judging by the hanging staple at the top right corner of the page.

Joan’s first thought when she saw this picture was a little uncharitable.

_ God, he looks so severe. _

But she quickly pushed this aside in an attempt to give him a fair shake.

A quick once-over of his personal information was promising. Fifty, divorced after twenty years of marriage, one son. So clearly commitment wasn’t the issue. He loved New York, his work in banking, fiction of all sorts, as well as going to the movies. The last film he had seen was  _ The Illustrated Man,  _ which made Joan smile. Maybe he took his kid. Maybe he liked a good story.

“There’s something else in the bottom of the envelope,” Annie announced, after she’d gotten bored of looking over the biography. “Aw! Okay, these are adorable.”

Without ceremony, she handed a narrow strip of four pictures to Joan. All taken in a photobooth with a young boy who looked like he was around twelve or thirteen. His son, probably. Or nephew. Although they had the same smile.

“Oh,” was all Joan sighed out, when she looked at the film in earnest.

Annie wasn’t wrong. These pictures were adorable; far and away better than the formal headshot, which is probably why the agency had included them with the packet. While the headshot made this poor man seem very severe, like a grinched-up bean-counter instead of a professional financier, the informal pictures made him look fun. Lively in an unexpected way.

She glanced at the film strip again, saw the way the first photograph featured both man and son peering into the camera, straight-faced, before his son poked him in the side in picture two, and they started goofing off. 

God, he looked like a completely different person when he smiled. Open and relaxed. Happy to spend time with his kid. The kind of person who could be a good father. Or a good date.

The last image showed the kid sticking his tongue out at the camera and pulling his nostrils up with one thumb, mugging it for all he was worth, while his father roared with laughter. Blurred with his hands up by his face and his glasses falling off his nose. Maybe this man liked to laugh instead of keeping up appearances all the time. Maybe that was why he looked so awkward in the posed pictures.

He was cute in these, Joan thought. And he was English. 

Cute Englishman could be fun.

“We’ll have dinner.” Joan prayed her instincts weren’t too rusty. She also wondered what he might have been thinking about her, and if he got the same kind of packet from the agency, too. “Call Agatha, and get it set up.”

 

##

 

With a growl, Lane snatched at the thick file of the first prospective, still gripped in Walter’s hands; it proved to be a futile effort. Across the desk, Walter just held it out of reach – and at six foot four, that was saying something. Not even a sheet of paper fell out. 

“ _ Please _ tell me about her.”

“Not a chance. You’ll make yourself crazy.” Walter sat down in his usual chair, and opened the file. It was maddening to think he already knew more intimate details about this woman than Lane knew about some of his own ex-girlfriends. “I know how you get.”

“No, you don’t,” Lane retorted, although this entire conversation had already proved Walter’s point. Agatha had sent over the delivery a mere ten minutes ago, and he was already crawling out of his skin for a look at the rather overwhelming file. “All right. Just – tell me a little. I have to know _something_ if we’re to go out together.”  
“Okay. Well. Her name’s Joan Harris.”

Lane thought for a moment, and made an approving face. Nice name. Hadn’t known any hideous Joans or Harrises prior to this point, anyway, so there were no alarm bells there.

“She’s thirty-eight, divorced, with a four-year old son. Secretarial school, plus a college degree in French and – hey, mathematics minor. Works in some kind of production company now, although I couldn’t tell you where. Didn’t put the name.”

Not too bad. Thirty-eight with a toddler was a surprise, but that could mean anything. Could have even been the reason for the divorce, if the husband didn’t want children to begin with. Could’ve had trouble the way he and Becca did. Or perhaps there were other mitigating circumstances. If she had a professional job, was a manager or a director, that could have been the reason for putting off children. And he supposed the mathematics was what had snagged the algorithm in the first place, which seemed encouraging. Perhaps productions had to do with the theatre. Something very New York.

“Right. That’s all fine.” Now the sticky wicket. “What does she look like?”

Hmph. Five eight. One fifty five. Redhead. Blue eyes. Also included her – ” Walter turned a page, brown eyes widening in surprise, “whoa.”

“Oh, god.” This sounded horrible. “What?”

“Nothing.” Walter cleared his throat, pursed his mouth in an impressed or possibly alarmed way. “Well, I was gonna say she included her measurements, plus a picture, but I’m not gonna show either one of ‘em to you yet.” Another pause. “Man! Send that woman at the agency some flowers if it works out. She deserves ‘em.”

Lane dragged both hands through the sides of his hair in frustration. Of course Walter would suddenly decide to become withholding at the most inconvenient possible time. “You are the worst sort of friend, and I absolutely despise you.”

The intercom buzzed, and a tinny voice issued through the speaker. “Mister Pryce, your hamburgers have arrived. Is Mister Benton still staying for lunch?”

Lane didn’t even have to glance up to confirm before hitting the button. “Staying as per usual, thanks. Oh, and make sure he’s got the diet drink, please, so I don’t have to hear him complaining all afternoon.”

“Hey! You know Carla likes me trim,” came the objection from across the room. “Says if I wear my hair right, I’d look like Marvin Gaye.”

“Duly noted,” said Marjorie, drily, and hung up.

 

##

 

Although things were extremely busy at the office as Joan left for the restaurant, she was still able to arrive a few minutes early, fix her hair and lipstick, and secure a table just before her date arrived.

When Lane did arrive, following a waiter toward the table, she was pleasantly surprised. He seemed nervous, yes, and was a little more stout than the pictures indicated – no worse than the difference between her own picture and herself, all things considered – but he’d clearly put in an effort. His royal blue jacket, patterned grey trousers, pale collared shirt, and yellow pocket square were distinctively interesting, and personality-wise, he seemed shy but kind. Plus, he’d brought a single pink flower to dinner, like a nervous teenage boy going on his very first date.

“It’s a bouvardia,” he explained as he handed it over. Joan took the stem from him with a grateful look, and inhaled a delicate feminine scent. “Named after the chap who did the Royal Gardens in Paris, which I thought was rather interesting.”

“My goodness.” Clearly, he had done his homework. “Thank you. This is lovely.”

“Very welcome.”

They exchanged a few minutes of small talk before ordering a bottle of wine. And so, when the server returned with the bottle, and they placed an appetizer order, Joan was looking forward to an evening spent away from the office.

Two minutes later, the maitre’d was informing her she had a phone call. Waving this request off, Joan shook her head no, and politely asked him to take a message. It would be the height of rudeness to answer a work call during dinner. 

“Work,” she said with a smile. “Sorry. Hopefully that won’t happen again.”

“Long day at the office?” he asked.

“Few big fires this week, unfortunately.” She attempted to turn the conversation around. “How was your day? I hope you weren’t stuck in traffic on the way over?”

After the fourth time the long-suffering maitre’d dropped by their table, only to have Joan turn him away or accept another message slip in return, her date’s original enthusiasm had dimmed a little. He seemed overwhelmed, or possibly horrified, by all the attention she was getting, and had started to sputter over his words.

“Didn’t realize I was having dinner with – Conrad Hilton,” came the sly remark after the fifth interruption.

“You know, I’ve actually met him?” Joan summoned up a knowing smile.

“Really? What was that like?”

“Well, to be honest, the man is insane. He demanded my former boss write a full ad campaign about going to the moon – in 1962, mind you. It went about as well as you would think. And then he decided not to pay for the work, because he didn’t even like it!”

“Oh, dear. Perhaps we should be glad he isn’t around, after all.”

“Ma’am. You have  _ another _ telephone call.”

Joan glanced to her left, horrified, and saw that the maitre’d was back, scowling at her. Instead of offering her a scrap of paper this time, he had already brought the powder-blue telephone over to her table, and set it next to her salad fork.

“Thank you,” she said crisply, and picked up the receiver, mouthing a visible  _ sorry  _ to her date across the table. “Joan Harris.”

“Mrs. Harris! Michael Oxney. How ya doing?”

Jesus Christ. Of course it was her worst client: a sleazy Hollywood agency who couldn’t keep half their stars on retainer after the first two years. Although dealing with the senior partners was frustrating enough, dealing with their lawyer was even worse. They were terrified to put even a few sentences in print, lest someone, somewhere, take offense.

“Mister Oxney. This must be urgent. What can I do for you?”

“Well, listen, honey, I know we got the majority of the deal ironed out Monday, but I’m afraid we’re gonna need some last minute changes after all.”

“Last minute changes.”

Based on the alarmed look her date gave her, her tone was far too frosty. She glanced toward the wall and bit her lip, praying for patience. Do not lose your temper in front of a date. Just get this done as quickly as possible.

“Well, yeah. I mean, I know Irving Senior said everything was good, but Fitzgerald still thinks – ”

_ Fuck Fitzgerald, _ Joan wanted to snarl. He doesn’t even read the dossiers!

“ – I mean, the whole thing’s making him kind of antsy, you know? Other companies don’t take out big editorials just to – ”

Screw it. She was going to have to make a scene in the middle of dinner, consequences be damned.

“No, sir. Tell him I don’t care what other companies do. We’ve already submitted the final, approved copy to L.A., New York, Chicago, and four other national papers, based on this week’s agreement. Not to mention, the fact that he keeps altering the terms of our deal, after personally reviewing it no fewer than six times, is  _ egregious. _ ” 

Her date made a surprised face. Joan did not stop to reassure him.

“It means I can’t believe he signed it.” Setting her jaw in a furious way. “Now. If Mister Irving and the senior partners don’t agree with the quotes we finalized, that’s one thing. I am happy to ensure every member of the board contributes to this editorial however they see fit. But I refuse to concede on the necessity of – oh, no you don’t!” 

He was trying to interrupt her. She refused to let him barrel over her.

“The Times alone showcases _seventy consecutive years_ of increasing profits, not to mention qualifying for listing on the ASE just last year.” Joan barely paused to take a breath. “No, it is certainly not specious. When you include the _Journal_ as well as the major papers of other cities, the figure jumps to five point seven one four million earned in advertising revenue every year. And if Fitzgerald had read a darn thing about the public offering of A-stock, including their financial statements, or the frankly very thorough documents my team prepared for his review, he would already know that.”

No. I don’t care if his grandmother only uses op-eds to wrap up fried fish for her sewing circle potlucks. We are  _ not  _ rescinding the editorials based on an opinion of one. But my girls will be happy to take down any additional thoughts the wider group might have to offer. Now, I’ve got to run, and I won’t be available again until tomorrow morning.” She gave Lane a hopefully-apologetic glance. “Because I’m in the middle of something very important. Yes.” A pause, she tried to make her voice sound as cheerful as possible. It came out strangled and tense. “Of course. You as well. We’ll speak more tomorrow.”

Hanging up, she heaved out a sigh as the maitre’d finally took the telephone away from their table, and suppressed the urge to hide her face in both hands. This was probably the point in the evening where her date would stutter out some halfway-believable excuse and sprint out of the restaurant in sheer terror.

“Sorry. Would you, er, like more wine?”

Joan glanced up; Lane was gesturing toward her glass with the bottle, clearly preparing to pour it, should she give the final word.

“Yes.” She blinked once, helpless. “I – you don’t want to leave?”

“Not just yet, I think.” He shrugged. “Unless you’d prefer...?”

“No! Oh, god, no. I’m just – surprised you’re not upset.” Letting out a rueful noise. “I’m just – sorry. Not exactly a stellar first impression.”

“Perhaps not.” He poured a generous glass for her, and then topped off his own. “But I couldn’t possibly abandon a woman who follows the A-stock listings, hm?”

And he smiled at her as if he’d just made the best joke in the world.

She was so shocked her mouth dropped open. “Really?”

“Absolutely. You – told that fellow off quite thoroughly, I think,” said Lane, as he replaced the wine bottle in the silver ice bucket. “If your company haven’t promoted you up the ladder yet, then they should do. Calling so many times during dinner, and all that.”

Joan bit her lip, suddenly shy, and decided to pull the trigger. “Well. I actually – own the company. Um. I founded it. So that might be a little hard to accomplish.”

He did a double-take, eyes widening behind his glasses. His hand was still on the wine bottle. “You  _ own  _ the company.”

“Yes.” Admitting this made her feel very silly and self-conscious. “Holloway Harris Productions. I didn’t put that part in the survey. Like I said earlier, it’s a production company.”

“No, but – ” he seemed not to know what to ask as he settled back in his seat, “sorry. How did you establish it? And when? Think you’re rushing over all the best parts, to be honest.”

Was that excitement in his voice? Did he actually want her to talk about it?

“Well, I, uh, started it out of my home just after leaving advertising, about four years ago. Last year we were finally able to rent out space on 6th Ave. So now we specialize in a variety of topics: public relations, advertising, financial investments, general consulting – you know. Nothing too dramatic.”

“Well, that’s – that’s just  _ brilliant, _ ” he said hoarsely, still wide-eyed. “Think you’ve named about four other industries there. Good god.”

She stared at him. Men usually tripped over the table in horror around this point in the conversation. Especially if she was more successful than they were. She’d had more than one date demand she give it all up for motherhood – and not in those words.  
Lane still had more to say, apparently. “I’ve – forgive me if this sounds rather pedestrian, but I don’t think I’ve ever met an, ah, real investrice before. Is that the, er, proper term? Investrice? Chairwoman?” A pause. “Promise I’m not poking fun. I really am curious. It’s just – fascinating. Well done, you.” 

Oh. Wow.

“Thanks.” Joan cleared her throat. “You know, I’m actually not sure what the title should be. I think I just put owner or managing partner on my checks.” On impulse, she gave him a stupid little wave, as if they were introducing themselves all over again. “Anyway. Hello.”

She could have kicked herself seconds after this happened. God, she was rusty.

“Hello.” He grinned at her, and actually waved back. “Nice to meet you.”

 

##

 

“....so MacKendrick’s wife phones my wife – distraught, naturally – demanding to know why her husband hadn’t been home in three days. St. John and Ford hadn’t the mettle to tell her he was off his head on cocaine in some godawful mama bar, and not golfing in Wan Chai, or whatever he’d told her he was doing. So, the unpleasant task was left to me. I had to inform her that her husband had got into a rather serious accident and lost a foot to nothing more than chance and a golf ball collector.” Lane took another gulp of his cocktail. “In the end, whole thing prompted a rather vicious row between Rebecca and I. Things were said in the moment that had been brewing for – well. Long time, really. And we separated shortly afterwards. Though it was for the best, in hindsight.”

“I can understand that,” Joan murmured.

“Mm.” He made a thoughtful face. “Hong Kong was unusual, certainly, but with regards to banking, it – well, I’m sure you’ve seen similar trends in advertising, or in Hollywood. Lot of people lose themselves in nightlife and glitter and forget what’s important.”

“Some men are the same everywhere,” Joan said darkly, which prompted a snort from across the table. “Tell me about the industry, though. The work sounds fascinating.”

Half an hour later, he was deep into an extremely detailed explanation of his bank’s typical duties and goals.

“....and unlike the rest of the Third World, we pursued export-led growth strategies. Leading to a frankly impressive growth surge and making the whole of China an, ah, en-eye-see - newly industrialized country, that is.” A pause. “Sorry. This probably sounds – hideous.”

“Not at all,” Joan assured him, and meant it. “Although we probably should stop talking shop. My mother would be horrified if I told her we only discussed finance all night.”

“Woe betide us if I disappoint a woman’s mother this early in the evening,” Lane quipped, just as the waiter dropped off a second bottle of wine. “Oh, wonderful. Thanks. No more work, then. Here’s something we can try instead. Have you got a favourite television program right now?”

“Oh, god. Okay, don’t laugh.” She took a drink from her newly-filled wine, giving him a sly look over the rim of the glass. “The GE College Bowl.”

He made an approving noise, and reached across the table to touch her hand, voice cracking over an earnest exclamation. “I  _ love _ that one.”

“Really? Are you kidding?”

“Not at all. Did you catch the Barnard girls last week? Or the California chaps the week before?”

“Those economics questions. Yes!” Joan laughed in surprise, and checked her watch out of habit. “Listen, I don’t know if you’re interested in going somewhere else, but we might still be able to catch tonight’s episode if we hurry. Want to take this bottle of wine on the road?”

 

##

 

“Jesus, how do you not know anything about the Leviathan? Are you an idiot?”

Stretched out comfortably on the sofa in their hotel suite, she and Lane had kicked their shoes off and were now passing the bottle of wine back and forth between them. After checking in, they’d spent the first fifteen minutes drinking straight out of the wine bottle and cheering like they were at the Super Bowl every time their preferred team got a correct answer. By the time they got to round three, they were more focused on jeering whenever the opposing team missed a very obvious question. Or did anything, really.

“Go back to Philosophy 101 already,” Joan snarled at the set, still ridiculing the poor boy from Cornell who’d missed the last question. “Stop wasting your time.”

Lane was giggling uncontrollably. “Oh, he’s only a sophomore!”

“What? He can’t wait forever,” she proclaimed, gesturing one-handed at the screen as if this much should be obvious, then cupping that same hand to her mouth as if he could hear her through the screen. “Honey, if you haven’t decided on a major by now, you’re never going to graduate. Why don’t you try attending class every now and then?”

“Good god. You are  _ ferocious! _ ” 

But Lane was still laughing, and by the time Robert Earle was reminding younger viewers to please visit their prospective colleges and universities, their priorities had shifted from good-natured heckling to something decidedly more charged.

“Been thinking about this all night,” Joan murmured through a sharp intake of breath, as Lane’s mouth teased across her neck and his hands mapped over the sliver of bare back exposed by her open zipper. The TV was playing some ancient Western movie now. “You kept staring at my breasts.”

“Oh, god. Knew you saw that.” He pulled away for a second, groaning in an embarrassed way. “If you – want to stop – ”

“Uh-uh. ‘S go all the way.”

He made a delighted noise, and they kissed again, more passionate this time. By the time she was straddling his lap, minutes later, Joan had already snuck one hand under his waistband and had begun to cant her hips against his, panting with excitement.

“Can you make it like this?”

“Yeah.” They were both fumbling with his waistcoat buttons, now; Lane’s mouth was open in an O of anticipation, while she was grinning ear-to-ear. “God, yes. Ride me.”

With a snort, she tossed his waistcoat onto the floor in a lump, bent down to his ear, and briefly grazed her teeth over his earlobe. “My big bucking bronco, huh?”

Giggling, he leaned to his right and pulled her down on top of him with a wild screech. 

“Yee ha!”

She shrieked with laughter, scrambling to sit up even as they flailed around like two giggling idiots. “Hey, you’re a bronco, not a cowboy!”

“How dare you,” he growled, although he’d already lay back against the pillows and grabbed her hips with two hands, clearly loving this game. “’M the roughest cowboy on the – ”

Without another word, she reached up and pulled her dress over her head. As she discarded it, his eyes widened to the size of dinner plates. By the time she teased several fingers around the front clasp of her lacy black bra, he groaned out loud.

“Christ.” Lane’s fingers skated up her arms and down her almost-bare chest, skimming over the lace cups in an eager way. “You’re so damned gorgeous.”

Joan tossed her head, proud and defiant, and settled her full weight against his body before opening the clasp, enjoying the way the tip of his tongue darted out to wet his lips after she did this. Seconds later, she tossed her brassiere into the floor. 

“Thank you.”

 

##

 

The following Monday, Joan was pleasantly surprised to get a delivery in the middle of the morning: a gilded box of pale pink roses.

“Ooh, are those from the English guy?” Annie gave them an appraising eye after dropping off a few forms onto Joan’s desk. “Date must have gone pretty well.”

“It did,” Joan said wryly, as she opened the envelope containing the florist’s card. “He spent the night.”

“Awesome.” Annie made an approving face.

Before Joan could answer, there was a knock on the door, and suddenly Lane was rushing into the room. He carried an identical gold box under his arm, and everything about him seemed harried.

“Sorry. Don’t open that. They mixed up the cards!”

“What?” Judging by his tense grimace, she was supposed to be upset. But even seeing him so worked up made her smile a little. “Who did?”

“The bloody florist!” Lane let out a sigh, gestured toward her desk with the box he carried. “Anyway. These are actually for you, and the ones you’ve got are for, ah, Agatha. As a thank you. I’ll just, ah, take those now.”

Now Joan was just curious, and waved the envelope she still held in one hand through the air. Far in the corner, Annie was already backing out of the room. “Well, wait. What does her card say?”

“No, don’t read it, truly. It’s silly, and - awfully boring, and – ”

Her voice turned playful and knowing. “Oh, I’m definitely going to now.”

“Joan!” 

With a panicked noise, Lane lunged for the paper, but she was too quick, and gaily sped backwards in her rolling chair toward the far wall as she read this message.

“Dearest Agatha – ” with a snort “ – wow, you  _ really _ like her. Was fully prepared to write off this endeavour as a charlatan’s ruse till you introduced me to Joan.” Pause. The teasing note left her voice. “She is  lovely . I adore her. Had a wonderful evening together. Many thanks, Lane Pryce.”

Standing next to her desk, Lane looked as embarrassed as if she’d just shoved him into the wall. He was staring out the window with two spots of pink in his cheeks and a muscle twitching in his clenched jaw. 

Quietly, Joan folded the note back into its envelope. “So what does mine say?”

Lane glanced over, still blushing. “What?”

“Agatha’s card is cute.” With an expectant arch of one eyebrow. “Is mine?”

“Oh.” Turning, he unwrapped the black ribbon that held the box closed, and pulled out an identical cream-colored envelope. “Well. Here. You can, ah, judge for yourself, I suppose.”

Joan took it, pulled out the card, and read this silently.

_ Darling – been dreaming of my wild cowgirl all week-end. Another rodeo this Friday? Kisses, Lane. _

“Yee ha,” said Joan after a long moment. Giving him a soft wink, she stood up, walked forward, and placed both envelopes onto the corner of her desk. “I’m keeping both of these, by the way.”

The apprehension left his face, replaced by a genuine smile.

“Are you?”

“And I’m free to go out this weekend,” she told him, tapping his arm with one hand as she moved forward. “Probably Saturday. There’s some...stupid professional mixer at the Marriott on Friday night. Lot of productions people. It wouldn’t be as fun as a real date, but you’re welcome to join me for a drink, if you’re bored.”

“I see.” His smile widened. “Well, I can do, yes. Could be interesting.”

“Sure.” They stood barely a foot apart by now. Quickly, she leaned in, kissed him, and pulled back, balancing both hands on his chest for a brief moment before walking away. “Now go get Agatha some more flowers. She deserves them.”

“Long as you kiss me again first,” Lane said gruffly, and pulled her back into his arms.

**Author's Note:**

> This happened because a) I saw [an old ad for computer dating on tumblr](https://books.google.nl/books?id=vUwEAAAAMBAJ&printsec=frontcover&hl=nl&source=gbs_ge_summary_r&cad=0#v=onepage&q=How%20to%20be%20comfortable%20with%20computer%20dating&f=false) and b) also watched [this infamous episode](https://slate.com/culture/2018/08/agnes-scott-vs-princeton-college-bowl-the-biggest-upset-in-quiz-show-history.html) of _The GE College Bowl_ on a lunch break. 
> 
> Not even sorry. This is a great premise no matter how old the computers are. Plus I couldn't resist [a nod to the amazing technical possibilities of 2000-era sexy video chat!](https://www.google.com/url?sa=t&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=web&cd=1&cad=rja&uact=8&ved=2ahUKEwjShpyYuITdAhUHlawKHYueDhYQyCkwAHoECAYQBQ&url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DCOm64Fu7NRo&usg=AOvVaw01Q9PysQ_cJ1FLmJmijNv1)
> 
> Also, I picture Walter as a taller version of [Anthony Mackie](https://cdn1.thr.com/sites/default/files/imagecache/gallery_portrait_500X751/2012/01/Anothy_Mackie_Man_on_a_Ledge_a_p.jpg) in this suit, okay bye.


End file.
